One Cut Before I Die
by tarnished glitter
Summary: Roger's found a new way to get rid of his problems: by bleeding them out. Deals with some pretty intense issues and may be graphic so consider yourself warned. Please review!! **CHAPTER 8 ADDED**
1. Default Chapter

A/N:  This fic is dedicated mostly to Angela, and to anyone else who's dealing with this. Deals with pretty intense issues and may be graphic at times. Oh yeah, and the characters aren't mine, they're Jonathan Larson's…but you already knew that…  ;)  I'm not really sure whether or not to continue with this one, let me know what you think and if it sucks I'll start on something else.  :D  Please review!!

Roger POV

            I pick out a few notes on my guitar, a pathetic attempt at writing a song, for the first time in the two weeks since my band split up. The words that come out of my mouth, though, are meaningless and the chords are all wrong so I sigh and put my guitar down, convinced that I'm no more than a one hit wonder whose song wasn't even a hit.

            I haven't been able to write a decent song since "Your Eyes," and that was two years ago. I'm nothing. My ageless dream of becoming a rock star is now long forgotten, just a fantasy that I know will never come true. My new dream is to get enough gigs for once so that I'll be able to pay the rent on time and actually have enough money to afford food and heat. But lately that dream is becoming as unreachable as my childhood fantasy of becoming a rock and roll legend.

            As the days go by, death is looking better and better and suicide is becoming more and more of an option. But of course, I'd never really be able to go through with it. Well, I could, but I wouldn't do that to Mark and to everyone else who care about me.

            I have to laugh at that thought. No one cares about me. Not really. No one seems to notice how depressed I've been lately, they just go about their merry lives, noticing only their own problems:  Maureen got into another fight with Joanne, Mark's film was rejected by another producer, Collins lost another job... no room in their minds for Roger. None whatsoever. They don't seem to notice that their friend is falling apart right in front of their eyes, only that he forgot to go shopping again, or that he was "flirting" with another girl at the Cat Scratch Club.

            I sigh again and cover my head with a pillow when I think about Mimi and the incident at the Cat Scratch Club. We got into another huge fight last night when she accused me of flirting with one of her friends, which I _wasn't. It's not like she doesn't go and cheat on me with Benny ever other month anyway so what does it even matter?_

            We get into fights every other day, our relationship is becoming a joke. We can't be together for more than ten minutes at a time without jumping down each other's throats, or accusing the other of sleeping with someone else.

            I look at my watch. I'm supposed to meet Mimi in a half hour, but what I'd really like to do is sleep the day away and make up for some of the sleep I missed last night when Mimi was screaming too loud for the entire block to sleep.

            Well, I could at least nap until it's time to meet her. I lie down on my bed and drift quickly into an uneasy sleep. The last thing I think of before drifting into the world of unreality is wondering what it would be like to sleep forever and wishing at the same time that I could.

            I awake several hours later to the ringing of the phone, and forget for a second that I was supposed to meet Mimi at the club 2 and a half hours ago. It only registers when I hear her voice, a mixed blend of angry English and Spanish, on the answering machine, demanding that I pick up the phone..."that is, if you're not out with another girl."

            I sigh and pick up the phone, bracing myself for the heated argument that I know is coming.

            "Mimi?" I say sleepily into the receiver.

            "Where the hell were you, Roger? You were supposed to meet me at the Life over two hours ago! I waited outside for an hour!"

            "I know, I'm sorry, I fell asleep…"

            "Yeah, on top of someone right?"

            I sigh and rub my aching temples. "Mimi, I was fucking exhausted alright? I was up half the night listening to you screaming…  I said I'm sorry, and I wasn't in someone else's bed, I was in my own."

            I suddenly hear some very loud ranting on the other line and I hold the phone away from my head, cringing when I realize it's still loud enough to give me a headache. Finally, it seems to die down and I risk placing the phone to my ear again.

            "Mimi?"

            I hear her sigh.

            "Roger, this isn't working is it?"

            I pretend not to know what she's talking about. "What's not working?"

            "You know what I mean. Us. This…  There's someone else isn't there?"

            "Mimi, for the last fucking time, I'm not fucking cheating on you!"

            "Alright, fine, I'm sorry..."  I can't help but note the hint of sarcasm in her voice as she says this.  "But what else am I supposed to think Roger? You're so distant all the time, you're mind's always somewhere else, and you 'forget' about half of our dates, leaving me standing alone waiting for you to show up, but you never do."

            Well, she's right about that part at least…  

"I'm not seeing anyone else," I say through clenched teeth.

            "Well, Roger, whatever it is that's going on with you, this isn't working out."

            I nod, not wanting to have this conversation, but then realize she can't see me. "Yeah, I know…I've just had some things on my mind…  Just give me another chance, okay? I promise I won't screw up again."

            "Roger, you say that every other day. Whatever it is you're going through right now, you're obviously incapable of being in a relationship while you go through it…  Are you using again, baby?"

            "No!"  God, can't I just be depressed once in a while without everyone thinking I've gone back to heroin?

            I hear her sigh again. "Alright, fine."

            "I'm sorry, Mimi, I didn't mean to sound so angry…"

            "No, Roger, stop, you apologize to me all the time, but when are you ever going to do anything about it? It's one thing to apologize and keep apologizing for the same things over and over again, and another to actually go and change the thing that needs apologizing in the first place."

            "I know, I'm sorry-"

            She sighs loudly and I shut my mouth, realizing I just did it again.

            This time when I open my mouth I think before I speak and choose my words carefully, realizing that this could either save or end our relationship.

            "I know I've been a little off lately, it's no big deal though, okay? I'll be fine, I just…  Just give me some time and I'll be back to normal before you know it."

            "Ok, I'll give you some time. When you work through whatever you need to work through, give me a call. But until then, I think we should stop seeing each other because to tell you the truth, I'm sick of being in a one-person relationship."

            "No wait, Mimi, I-"

            But it's too late, she's gone and before I know what's happening it's the dial tone I'm protesting to instead of my girlfriend.

            Well, ex girlfriend technically…

            The thought that me and Mimi are over hits me with sudden force and I feel my eyes begin to tear up with unwanted tears.

            It's really over this time…  God, I'm such a jackass sometimes. Mimi's probably the best thing that ever happened to me and what do I do? I fuck it up like always. I'm such an idiot…

            Suddenly I know what I have to do and I go in the bathroom, determined to end all this pain once and for all. I open the cabinet and reach for a razor blade but as I hold it to my wrist I know I don't have the strength to really go through with it.

            So instead I place the blade a little higher up and carve an "M" into my arm, for Mimi. I brace myself for the pain that I'm sure is to come and am surprised when I realize it doesn't.

            I open my eyes, which I realize have been clenched shut, and watch the crimson beads drip slowly down my arm, forming a little river in their path. I just stare at it, mesmerized for a few seconds before I realize how sick this it and tear my eyes away.

            But…I have to admit that that felt…almost good…  That's sick, it should hurt… pain is NOT supposed to feel good…

            But I can't help running the blade over my skin a few more times, reveling in the release of my tension and anxiety. For the first time in two weeks, I feel good…not happy exactly, but not depressed. Like by causing physical pain to myself I'm in control of the emotional pain that has been haunting me for what seems like forever now.

            Suddenly, I hear the front door to the loft open and Mark's footsteps follow shortly after.

            "Roger?"

            I quickly clean myself up, placing a bandage over the wounds, as if by covering them I would forget about how good it felt making them, how relaxed and numb and…  sick. How sick it is to even think something like that.

            I hear Mark call out for me again and I quickly open the cabinet and am about to replace the razor blade but at the last minute, I close it again and instead place the razor in my pocket. Maybe I'll just keep it with me for a while…


	2. Tomorrow

Mark POV:

            I sigh as I stand outside the Life Café with Collins and look at my watch. 12:52 and 14 seconds…10 seconds later than the last time I checked. Roger was supposed to meet us here at 12:30 and he's still not here.

            I'm starting to get a little worried about him. For the past few weeks he's been…well, just not himself. He's been pretty depressed ever since his band broke up, which isn't unusual for Roger, but he usually pulls out of it pretty quickly. It usually doesn't last for more than about two weeks but it's been over a month now and it seems like he's only gotten worse.

            He's always so withdrawn, I can never get him out of the loft anymore, and I'm pretty sure that he didn't just "forget" about meeting me and Collins today for lunch. And the only reason we're meeting in the first place is for him, to get him out of the house.

            I sigh again and wait another five minutes before going inside with Collins and ordering a tofu dog. When our food comes, I pick at it and think about Roger, not really having much of an appetite.

            "Mark!"

            I look up to find Collins waving a hand in front of my face.

            "Are you okay? You're really quiet today…"

            I shrug.  "Yeah, I'm alright. I'm just worried about Roger."

            "Why? What's wrong?"

            "I don't know…he's just not himself. He's depressed and withdrawn, he never leaves the house anymore…  You haven't noticed?"

            He shakes his head.  "No, but I haven't been seeing too much of him lately."

            "That's exactly my point. Neither have I. He's always locked up in his room, he's so distant, and he never talks to me anymore. He never talks to _anyone_ anymore. I don't even think he goes out to see Mimi."

            "Um, they broke up…  Didn't he tell you?"

            I look at him in shock. "No, I had no idea…  When did they break up?"

            "I don't know, but Mimi told me about three weeks ago. Maybe that's what's bothering him?"

            "Maybe. I can't believe he didn't tell me…"

            "I don't know. If you're that worried, maybe you should talk to him."

            I nod, even though I really don't think that's the best idea. If he knew I was worried and suspicious I know he'd distance himself even more and that's the last thing that I want to happen. So for right now, I'll just keep a close eye on him and try to get him to open up to me without confronting him. Because I know a confrontation would only make things worse.

Roger POV:

            I sit in the corner of my room, watching the tainted blood spill out of my wounds and trail down my arm, dripping shaky beads of crimson on my quickly staining clothes and on the floor next to me.

            After a while, the blood flow stops and I come out of my daze, surprised at the amount of blood I see pooled around me.

            "Shit," I whisper to myself and get up quickly to clean myself up before Mark gets home.

            I did it again…I can't believe I did it again. I've been doing this for over a month now, and at first it was great. I wasn't depressed and angry all the time and I had an outlet for all the pain I'd been holding in for weeks. It was like I could control all my hurt and pain and anger with my razor and blood…but now it seems to be controlling me.

            In the beginning it was only one cut, maybe two, a day, and only when I really really needed it…when nothing else seemed to work. But lately I need it more and more often and need to cut deeper to achieve the same "high" that I used to get from just a few scratches. And that scares me because it reminds me so much of heroin and is just as addictive…and it's pulling me in just as quickly.

            As I wipe up the hardening crimson stains on my floor I can't help but stare at the scars on my arms and wince. Some of them are pretty bad, and I know a lot of them won't ever heal completely. I didn't mean to cut that deep, I just wasn't thinking and let the razor take control.

            I can't let that happen again, I have to cut back. I don't want to stop completely, but I can't continue with the way things are going. And summer's coming anyway and I know everyone will get suspicious if I'm wearing long sleeves all the time. So for now – at least until summer's over – I'll try to cut down to a minimal cut or two a week…as opposed to the eight or nine a day that I'm doing now. And I'll only do it when I absolutely need it, even though the need is coming more and more often and getting worse every time.

            I really don't want this to become an addiction like heroin was. It would be so embarrassing if everyone found out that I'm slicing up my arms for pleasure…I can only imagine what they'd think of me then.

            Just as I wipe the last crimson stain from the floor I hear Mark enter the loft and his immediate footsteps to my door.

            I quickly throw on a long-sleeved sweatshirt and hide my cleaning rag under my bed just as he opens the door and walks in.

            I silently breathe out a quick sigh of relief and glare at him. "Ever heard of knocking?"  
            "You would have pretended to be asleep."

            I glare at him again but don't say anything because I know he's right.

            "Why didn't you meet me and Collins for lunch today? We waited for you for a half hour Roger, what happened?"

            I didn't want to go out and I didn't want you prying into my life like you always do…

            "Sorry, I fell asleep and I just woke up a few minutes ago."

            He nods but I can tell from the expression on his face that he doesn't believe me.

            "Okay then…how about tomorrow? Meet us at the Life tomorrow at 12:00, I'll wake you up this time."

            "Wait Mark, I-"

            But he's already out the door, my protests unheard.

            I sigh. Great, now I'll have to sit through lunch tomorrow with Mark and Collins and pretend to be happy and normal and cheerful.

            I begin to feel a familiar feeling rise up inside of me and I grab for my razor, disregarding my vow to stop for the summer, and drag the cool piece of metal across my skin, sighing in relief as the anger and frustration and hurt spill out of my body with the blood that is now streaming steadily down my arm in little rivers.

            Okay, so maybe I won't stop today…  Tomorrow, definitely tomorrow.


	3. Realization

Mark POV:

            I stare at Roger sitting on the couch in jeans and a sweatshirt and shudder, just imagining how hot he must be. It's the middle of July, we're in the middle of a heat wave, and the loft is like a sauna. He's been acting so weird lately and I'm really starting to get concerned.

            "Roger?"

            "Hm?"

            He looks up at me and I can see the beads of sweat on his forehead.

            "Why the hell are you dressed like that? You must be sweating!"

            He bites his lip. "Um…yeah, I dunno…all my short-sleeved shirts are dirty."

            "So…? You wear a sweatshirt instead of none at all? Roger…you go shirtless in the winter… What's wrong with you? Do you feel okay?"  I begin to worry that maybe he's getting sick, and that's the reason for the sweating and winter clothes, despite the temperature in the loft.

            "Um, no…I'm fine…"

            I go over to him and put a hand to his forehead.

            "You know Roger, if you're getting sick... Jesus Roger, you're burning up!"

            He pulls away quickly.

            "It's not a fever, I'm just really hot..."

            I look at him in confusion. "Then...why are you dressed in jeans and a sweatshirt?"

            He throws the magazine he was reading on the floor and stands up angrily.

            "God Mark, just leave me alone for once! Stop being so fucking suspicious all the time! Geez... So I'm wearing a long-sleeved shirt...so fucking what?! God!"

            He stomps angrily to his room and slams the door, leaving me alone staring at the closed door in shock, wondering what in hell just happened.

Roger POV:

            Once in my room I savagely dig my hand in my pocket and pull out my razor quickly, wasting no time in yanking up my sleeve and dragging the cool blade across my skin several times before collapsing on my bed in relief.

            There...that's better. So much better...

            Alright, so maybe I overreacted a little. I feel bad for shouting at Mark like that when I'm sure he had only my best interest at heat, but did he have to call attention to it like that? I feel bad enough as it is already without getting the third degree from him. 

            Two months ago I promised myself I would stop being so reckless in my behavior but since then I've only gotten worse, cutting more and more often and deeper every time. I don't mean to keep doing it, I really did try to stop, but I just can't...I have this feeling inside of me like I'll go completely insane, out of my mind if I don't do it. All the feelings I hold inside of me all the time...all the anger and rage and hurt and anguish just brim to the top, threatening to explode if I don't get them out, and the only way to do that is by bleeding them out.

            The problem is that that feeling is coming more and more lately, and as often as every half hour. If one little thing upsets me - like what just happened with Mark - all the others suddenly rise up in me as well, begging to be let out, to be released by the steady flow of my blood which seems to be the only thing that can comfort me anymore.

            But…I have to stop. If Mark wasn't suspicious before, after my outburst a few minutes ago, he is now. And I _can't_ let anyone find out about this…it would be so embarrassing if everyone knew the things I've been doing. They would think I'm crazy, disgusting, sick…no one would understand how good it feels…they just wouldn't understand. 

Which is why I'm going to stop…tomorrow. Tomorrow I will definitely stop, no more excuses. I can start again in the winter, when I won't be expected to wear short sleeves all the time, but for now I have to cut back because I know my friends are already starting to suspect.

Mark POV:

            I sit at a table in the Life Café with Collins, Maureen, Joanne, and Mimi, watching everyone around me and sensing the tension in the air. Roger was asked to come but, of course, he was "busy." Yeah, busy sitting around all day in his room with the door locked doing God knows what.

            I have to say, I'm a little surprised to see Mimi here. Since she broke up with Roger, she hasn't really been hanging around any of us very much. She started dating Benny again officially and I think she still feels pretty bad about dumping Roger for supposedly cheating on her when she had been seeing Benny on and off the whole time.

            As soon as the waiter comes with our food, mumbling something better being able to pay the bill, Collins clears his throat and looks at me.

            "Um, how's Roger doing, Mark?"

            I shrug.  "I don't know. He never talks to me anymore. He yelled at me a few days ago but since then he's barely said a word."

            Mimi sighs and looks down at her food.  "What was he mad about?"

            I shrug.  "I have absolutely no fucking clue. I asked why he was dressed in a sweatshirt and jeans when it was over 90 degrees outside and he just snapped…for no reason…he just started yelling at me."

            "Oh no…he's wearing long sleeves?"

            I nod, confused at why Mimi looks so upset all of a sudden.

            "Oh God, I think I know what's wrong…"

            I look at her anxiously. "What is it?"

            "…I think he's using again. He was acting so weird when we broke up and I asked him about it, I asked if he was using, and he denied it, but he was really acting like he was. And now the long sleeves…"  She lets her voice trail off.

            Collins nods. "Yeah, that's what I was thinking too."

            I don't say anything for a while, not really knowing how to respond. I have to agree with their suspicions as to why Roger dresses the way he does, but I don't think he's shooting up again. For one thing, he never leaves the loft anymore, and therefore has no access to smack. And I lived with him for the two years he was on drugs, and he definitely is not acting the same way he did back then.

            When he was a junkie he was constantly begging me for money, trying to sneak out of the loft, angry at me consistently and always snapping at me, throwing up all the time when he didn't have access to his drug…  He's not acting that way at all now.

            Now he's just withdrawn, never leaving his room, never speaking, always clad in long sleeves and pants…and the only time he yelled at me was when I questioned him about the way he dressed. But I don't say this out loud, because I'm too scared to admit what I really do suspect.

            It's stupid really, I know I'm just being ridiculous, worrying over nothing. Roger's smart, he wouldn't…do that. He's probably just having a hard time right now, depressed about Mimi and his band. Maybe he's feeling a little left out. There's no reason to suspect he's doing anything that stupid, I'm sure I'm just being paranoid.

            A few days ago I promised myself I'd start spending more time with him, to try and get him to open up about what's wrong and to try and cheer him up. But he always pretends to be asleep and his door is always locked, he doesn't come out no matter how much I yell or beg. Well, from now on I'll just have to try a little harder. Maybe I can get Benny to take the lock off his door…or break it down myself.

            If that's what it comes to, that's what I'll do. I have to prove to myself that Roger's not doing what I think he's doing.

*~2 Weeks Later~*

            "Roger! Get the hell out of there!" 

            I bang on Roger's door loudly, trying to get him to come out. But it's no use. He's holed himself up in there for the day and there's no getting him out.

            Every day for the past two weeks I've tried to spend more time with Roger. I've invited him to movies, asked him to play games, play his guitar, go to the Life, I even asked him if he wanted to go clubbing, something the old Roger would have never turned down.

            But he did, and has turned down every other invitation I've offered. I bang on his door once more, trying one last time to get him out of there, but the door doesn't budge and the room on the other side is silent.

            I sigh and go into the bathroom where I open up the medicine cabinet and take out his AZT bottle. I'm about to call out to him to remind him to take his AZT when I notice a few drops of blood on the sink near the cabinet. Okay…he probably just had a nosebleed…or cut himself shaving. There's no reason to suspect anything else…right?

            Lately I've been finding small traces of blood around the loft. I try to convince myself that there's nothing out of the ordinary going on…that he probably is just sick and has been having nosebleeds, and that's the reason he's sleeping so much also. And that the reason for the long sleeves and pants is because he's cold from a fever. There's no reason to think anything else…right?

            Right. Roger is sick and there's nothing more to it. Nosebleeds, fatigue, and hypothermia. Nothing else.

            I sigh as I carefully clean up the blood and decide that enough is enough. I walk over to Roger's door again and knock on it.

            "Roger, if you don't come out right now, I swear to God, I'm taking the hinges off the door!"

            I hear shuffling on the other side of the door and hear him cursing under his breath as he unlocks the door and glares at me angrily.

Roger POV:

            I stare at the little rivers of blood that flow down my arm at a quick pace and jump, startled, when I hear Mark banging on my door again.

            I sigh. Why won't he just leave me alone? I stay quiet, hoping he'll assume I'm sleeping and just go away. But, of course, he doesn't.

            "Roger, if you don't come out right now, I swear to God, I'm taking the hinges off the door!"

            Oh shit…he wouldn't… He can't see me like this!

            I quickly clean up the blood on the floor, hiding all the evidence of what I had been doing, and throw on a gray sweatshirt, not even bothering, in my hurry, to make sure that the bleeding has stopped. I open the door and glare at him.

            "What the hell do you want?"

            " I wanted to know if you wanted to see a…"  His voice trails off and he stares at me with an expression I can't quite read.

            "What's wrong?" I ask, trying to act normal so as not to give him any clues.

            He continues to stare at me with that same expression on his face for a few more seconds and then just simply says, "You're bleeding," and walks out, closing the door quietly behind him.

Mark POV:

            Okay, that was no nosebleed. And unless he suddenly decided to shave his arms, he didn't cut himself shaving. I sigh as I sit down on the couch, angry at myself for not seeing this sooner, for not doing anything about it. I have to stop denying it to myself. Roger's really in trouble, and I have to confront him about it before it gets any worse. I should have done it from the beginning, when I first suspected he was having this problem. I shouldn't have let it get as bad as it is…and judging from the amount of blood soaked on his sweatshirt, I'd say it's pretty bad.

            The thing that upsets me the most about this is that I knew…I knew for quite a while now but I kept denying it to myself. I didn't try to help, I didn't even ask him about it, or ask what was bothering him. Some best friend I am.

            I lie down on the couch and cover my face with a pillow, wishing I hadn't just seen what I had. I shudder as I remember the image. Roger's entire arm was covered in blood seeping through his sweatshirt.

            I stand up with a new determination. I can't ignore the problem any longer, can't blame it on nosebleeds, or sickness anymore. Roger needs help, and he hasn't been getting it because I've been too stubborn to admit to myself that he has a problem. Well, I'm not doing that anymore. Roger needs help, and dammit, I'm going to make sure he gets it.

Roger POV:

            Oh. Shit. I look down at my sleeve and shudder when I see what had gotten Mark so upset. Oh great, another shirt ruined. I shrug it off carefully, making sure not to get blood on anything else, and take out a dark towel from under my bed, and try to get the bleeding to stop so I can go out there and tell Mark I fell on something sharp, or scratched myself on a piece of metal sticking out from my bed.

            But, to tell you the truth I'm pretty sure that Mark already knows that I didn't "fall on something sharp", or "scratch myself on a piece of metal." He didn't seem shocked, or angry, or even upset. He was just emotionless.

            _You're bleeding_.

            And then he had walked out, not saying anything else.

            Oh my God. The realization that Mark knows what I'm doing hits with sudden force and I begin to get that feeling again. My head is screaming at me, my heart is pounding and all the anger and frustration is just begging to be released.

            I grab the razor from my pocket and drag it across my skin, not bothering to try and control my emotions so as not to cut myself too deep. 

            Mark knows, he knows what I do to myself… He's probably known all along, he must think I'm crazy now…disgusting, insane, sick…

            As I watch the blood flow steadily from the wounds in my arms, I begin to numb out, not even realizing that I'm still cutting myself, not acknowledging the sounds outside my room: the footsteps, the knocking, the calling of my name or the opening of my door until it's too late and Mark is standing in my doorway, a mixed expression of horror and angry concern on his face.

            "Oh my fucking God Roger, what the fuck are you doing??"

            I come out of my daze and look up at Mark, still somewhat numb to the world and what's going on around me. I come fully out of it though, as I look down and realize how much I'm bleeding…more than I ever have before. Oh great, and Mark just _had_ to choose this time to walk in on me didn't he?

            "Um, I just…I scratched myself on a piece of metal on my bed…"

            He comes all the way into my room and grabs for my arm, wrapping a shirt around it to stop the blood flow.

            "Oh my God Roger, you tried to kill yourself!"

            "What?? No I didn't!"

            He looks at me in confusion.

            "Then…"

            I pause, my mind racing, searching for any possible excuse as to why my arm would be bleeding as heavily as it is right now. But I can't think of any so after a long pause I look away from him and say quietly, praying he won't hate me and think I'm crazy, "I was trying to stop the pain."

            He's quiet for a second, probably surprised that I actually told him the truth, but then I can see all the anger and horror in his face again as he screams, "You were trying to stop the pain by tearing open your arms?!"

            I knew it, I knew he would react like this…he doesn't understand, I don't know why in hell I actually thought for a second that he might.

            I try not to cry, I really do, but all I can think about is how I probably just lost my best friend. Who would want to be friends with someone that "tears open their arms"? Who wants to be friends with a disgusting, crazy, psychopath? My eyes fill with tears and I try as hard as I can not to let them escape my eyes, but I can't help it as they spill down my cheek, thinking all the while about how Mark must hate me now and think I'm crazy and disgusting.

            Wow, I haven't cried since all this started. Lately my blood has been my tears, my scars the words I can't say, and my razor my only source of comfort. I don't like this, I want to stop crying, I want to bleed, I _need_ to bleed…I have to escape, but Mark is blocking my path to the door and my razor is on the other side of the room.

            So I wrap my arms around myself instead, attempting to make myself invisible, trying to disappear and escape from everything until I can be alone and make my emotions and hurt and pain go away with my blood and razor.

            I can see Mark's face soften as he notices the tears on my face and he reaches out, putting his arms around me to comfort me as he says, "I'm sorry Roger, I didn't mean to say that…"

            I shake my head and try to blink back the fresh tears that are forming in my eyes. "Yes you did. I'm crazy, I know I am. I know you think I am. You don't understand."  I angrily wipe my tears away, hating myself for being so weak.

            "No Rog, I don't think you're crazy. I was just…upset. I was worried, I was mad at myself. Not you."

            "Yeah right. Go away Mark, I have AIDS."

            He hesitates. "I know…but I'm not going to let you do this to yourself anymore. I'm not leaving."

            I pull away from him. "I'm serious Mark, go away. I don't want you catching AIDS because of me."

            He shakes his had. "No, I'm not leaving until you talk to me. Please Rog, let me help you…"

            I sigh and stare at the blood seeping through the shirt wrapped around my arm. I don't say anything for a while and eventually Mark just starts talking, obviously not caring whether or not I want to talk about it.

Mark POV:

            "Why…um, when did you start cutting yourself, Roger?"

            I try to avoid asking "why", because I know this is uncomfortable for him and I know he doesn't even want to talk about it at all.

            "Um, not long…maybe two weeks."

            I sigh and grab his other arm, pulling up the sleeve, and point to the scars that look like they were from months ago. I wince when I see how bad some of them are – a lot look like they could have used a few stitches – but I try to keep the look of shock and fright from registering on my face.

            I raise an eyebrow and look at him. "Two weeks?"

            He sighs and refuses to meet my eye.

            "Just leave me alone, I don't want to talk about this."

            "I know Rog, but I'm not asking all that much. I just want to know how long it's been."

            He sighs. "I don't know. A few months maybe…  Since Mimi dumped me."

            I try not to gasp, try not to let all the shock and concern and fright I feel inside show on my face.

            "Roger, that's been almost half a year…"

            He nods sadly but doesn't say anything.

            "You have to stop…you know that right?"

            He nods again.

            "I know. But, um, I tried already. And I just can't."

            I don't know what to say to this. I have no idea what it's like, my knowledge on the subject is minimal, at best. But there is one thing I know and that is that no matter what, I'm going to be there for Roger and get him the help he needs to get better.

            "You can stop Roger, and I'm going to help you. I know I haven't been a good friend up until now, but I swear, just give me a chance and I'll make sure you get the help you need to stop."

            "No, I don't need help, I'm fine."

            I look down at his arm wrapped in the now blood-stained shirt and back up at him again and sigh.

            I take his non-bloody arm and pull him into the bathroom with me, despite his protests, and take out gauze and bandages from the medicine cabinet.

            "Mark, stop, I have fucking AIDS!"

            I sigh and open the cabinet again, putting on a pair of latex gloves.

            "Better?"

            He nods slightly and I can tell that he's upset now about not having an excuse to not let me help him.

            I unwrap the shirt form his arm and shudder when I see how bad the cuts are. I can't for the life of me, fathom how someone can do this repeatedly to themselves and get pleasure from it. The concept is just so foreign to me, and I know Roger's right when he said I didn't understand. I _don't_ understand, and I know I can't help Roger until I get a little better understanding of the subject.

            I bandage his arms, after swabbing them with hydrogen peroxide so they wouldn't get infected, and then send Roger to his room again after making him hand over his razor to me.

            I wait until he falls asleep, which doesn't take very long considering how exhausted he is after everything that's happened today, and then call Collins to let him know that I'm on my way over.

            I knock on Collins' door, looking at my watch and frowning. I had come as soon as I had the chance but it's still pretty late and I hope I'm not disturbing him. But I'm at a loss here, I have no idea what to do about Roger and before I can help him, I need to get help for myself to understand about cutting and why Roger's doing it.

            Collins opens the door looking a little groggy, but concerned nonetheless.

            "Hey Mark. What's up?"

            I walk in and sit down at the table in front of the coffee cup he set out for me.

            "Um, I'm sorry to come by so late and everything. It's just…Roger's…"  I let my voice trail off.

            He takes a seat next to me and looks into my eyes.

            "What's wrong with Roger?"

            "He's cutting himself," I say quietly.

            Collins leans back in his chair and says nothing for a moment.

            "Are you sure, Mark?"

            I nod. "Yes, I'm positive. I…I've known for a while now I guess. I didn't want to believe it…but this afternoon I walked in on him cutting himself and… Oh God Collins, it was so bad…"

            Collins shakes his head sadly.

            "So that's why…with the long sleeves?"

            I nod. "I don't know what to do, Collins, I have no idea how to help him."

            He pauses for a second and then gets up and walks over to a big bookshelf in the corner and takes out a few books.

            "Read these," he says as he hands them to me. "That'll help a lot, just showing that you care and understand what he's going through goes a long way."

            I nod and I stare at the titles, shivering a little when I read the backs of some of the covers. Oh my God, how could Roger do this to himself?

 "I have a friend who works at a program at a hospital in Chicago…it's the only program in the nation that specializes in self-injury. There's a pretty long waiting list though, and I don't know if Roger would even get in. It's voluntary, they don't accept anyone who doesn't want to be there 100% on their own. They have to want to get better."

            I nod, taking this all in.

            "I don't think Roger would even consider going. He kept telling me tonight that he's fine and didn't need my help or anyone else's."

            Collins nods. "Yeah, that's what I thought. Do you know if he wants to stop?"

            I shrug. "I'm not sure…it kind of sounded like he did want to but didn't want to put in the effort to change."

            Collins nods again. "It's like an addiction, you know. So he's not all at fault there."

            I look at him in surprise. "It's an addiction?"

            "Addictive-like. So yeah, he's gonna go through hell trying to stop."

            I shake my head sadly and try to hide the tears that are forming in my eyes. First heroin and now this… How many addictions is he going to go through? How many am I going to have to go through with him, watching his every move, getting no rest, never going out of the house just to make sure he's not hurting himself again?

            Collins seems to sense my feelings and asks, "Mark, are you okay?"

            I shrug, trying to hold back the tears. "I don't know. I mean, Collins, he's cutting himself… I don't even know if he wants to stop, and even if he did, it's going to be impossible to keep him form doing it. I can't watch him all the time. As much as I'd like to, I just can't and the truth is he doesn't even want my help in the first place. How the hell can I help him if he doesn't want to be helped?" My voice cracks at the end of the sentence and a few tears escape my eyes and splash down the sides of my face.

            Collins puts an arm around me consolingly and rubs my back. "The truth is though, even if he doesn't want your help, or claims he doesn't, he still needs it. There has to be some small part of him somewhere that knows he needs your help and wants it. Otherwise he wouldn't have ever opened up to you in the first place…even if it was only a little bit. It's going to be hard, yeah, but not impossible. And we'll all be there to help however we can…  He'll get better Mark, don't worry."

            "Thanks Collins," I say through my tears.

            He nods. "If there's anything else I can do, let me know okay? Call me if he decides he wants to try out that program and I'll call my friend and get all the info you need."

            "Okay, but I doubt he'll ever agree to that."

            He shrugs. "You never know. Just let him know it's an option, and even if he doesn't agree to it right away, he may eventually come around."

            I nod and stand up, still not quite believing that all this is happening. I pick up the books and hug Collins before heading home, all the while planning in my head what I could possibly say to Roger to convince him to go to this program, and praying for the strength to get through this together.


	4. Always a Day Away

A/N:  The thoughts of Roger in this chapter are not those of my own. Please review, tell me what you think so far.

Mark POV:

            When I get back to the loft, Roger is still in his room, sound asleep. His sleeve is still rolled up a bit and I wince when I see the red spots through the thick bandaging…it must have bled through.

            I don't want to disturb him tonight but tomorrow, first thing in the morning, I'm going to talk to him about what I didn't have a chance to tonight and tell him about the program Collins told me about.

            I quietly close the door to his room and then take the books Collins lent me into my room and stay up the rest of the night, reading and thinking about Roger.

            At around 3:00, I hear Roger stir in the room next to mine and I close the book I had been reading and listen closely as he paces the room in quick steps. I can hear a few drawers banging closed and then his door creaks open and he walks quietly into the bathroom, where I can hear the soft squeak of the medicine cabinet opening.

            That's weird…why would Roger be…?

            Oh shit. Razors. There are still razors in the bathroom…

            I open my door quietly and tiptoe to the bathroom and watch what he's doing through the open door. He takes something – I can't make out what it is – out of the cabinet and holds it to his arm and…

            "Roger!"

            He jumps, obviously startled at the intrusion, and drops what I can see to be a razor, on the floor.

            "Mark, what the fuck?! You scared the shit out of me!"

            "Yeah, I can say the same," I say, motioning to the razor by his feet.

            He kicks it under the sink, as if I would forget about what I saw if it was no longer in sight, and glares at me.

            "What are you still doing up? And why are you following me?"

            "I'm not following you. I couldn't fall asleep and I heard you so I came to see what you were doing."

            He raises an eyebrow. "You came to see what I was doing in the bathroom?"

            I sigh. "Roger, cut the crap. And hand over the razor," I say, holding out my hand.

            He glares at me again and kicks the razor towards me angrily, not bothering to bend down and pick it up.

            I snatch it from the ground before he has the chance to rethink the action, and shove it in my pocket, making a mental note to get rid of the rest of the razors in here later.

            "Roger…" I shake my head disapprovingly. "Why? Why did you want to do it again?"

            "Just leave me alone," he hisses and shoves his way past me, back into his room again.

            I follow quickly, before he has the chance to lock me out again, and sit down next to him on his bed.

            "C'mon Rog, I'm just trying to help…"

            He pauses. "You wouldn't understand."

            "So help me to."

            He sighs and just looks down at his sheets, not saying anything for a few moments before looking up at me again with sadness in his eyes.

Roger POV:

            "Just leave me alone Mark. If you really want to help me, just leave me alone."

            He shakes his head.

            "No, I've been ignoring it for too long. I'm not going to deny the problem anymore Roger, just tell me what happened. Why did you want to cut yourself again?"

            I cringe at the words "cut yourself" and get the impulse to do it all over again. The reason I wanted to do it in the first place was because I had woken up from a sleep filled with nightmares and flashbacks, replaying the events of the evening over and over in my head. Remembering how he had walked in on me with a razor to my arm, bleeding so heavily that he had thought I tried to kill myself, how he had seen the cuts for himself as he bandaged my arms, how he'd witnessed me actually cutting into my own flesh with a razor.

            It was just so humiliating, he discovered my deepest darkest secret, the one I had intended to keep to myself forever because I knew if anybody ever found out they'd think I was absolutely disgusting and crazy. Because who "tears open your arms" for pleasure? Who actually finds comfort and relief from the pain of a razor blade or knife slashing through their skin? Sick people. Crazy people. Me.            

            And the knowledge that Mark knew all these things about me now set me off again, made me embarrassed and ashamed, and in need of my razor.

            I hadn't meant for him to have heard me in the bathroom. I had thought he was asleep and since he had taken my razor from me before, I thought I would be safe sneaking into the bathroom to get another one. But I was wrong apparently, and now all this has done is probably made him even madder, or made him think I'm even crazier than he did to begin with.

            "Roger?" he asks worriedly and it is then that I realize that I haven't said anything for about the past five minutes. 

            I look at him again and notice that he's staring down at me arms and I realize that I'm not wearing a shirt…my arms are fully revealed, showing off the crimes from the past, my scars, and the now blood soaked bandage that is covering them.

            "Um…I think your cuts opened up…"

            I quickly throw the threadbare blanket on my bed around myself, covering my arms and chest, and get up angrily, shoving him out the door and locking it.

            He bangs on the door for a few minutes, yelling and begging to be let in, but I don't do anything, don't even move from my spot on the bed as I stare at the white bandages that are becoming more wet and red with every second that passes.

            Finally I hear him yell, "Roger, I swear if you don't open the door I'm calling Benny right now and getting that lock removed!!"

            I laugh at that. "Yeah right, I'm sure he'd come up at three in the morning to take the lock off the door of a tenant he doesn't even like."

            He pauses.

            "Well then I'll either take the hinges off myself or I'll call an ambulance!"

            "An ambulance? And what would they do? Unscrew the hinges with their needles?"

            "No, they would use them to sew up your arms!"

            At this comment I jump off my bed, my blanket still around me, and open the door, glaring at him.

            "You wouldn't dare."

            "Yes I would, if you didn't let me help you myself I'd call them so fast you wouldn't even know what was happening."

            I glare at him and he crosses his arms, refusing to back down.

            "Fuck you Mark! Why can't you just leave me alone for once in your goddamn life?"

            His expression turns sad and I can hear his voice soften as he says, "Because if I did, you'd die."

            I don't say anything for a second, not believing this, but not wanting to say anything to upset him either.

            He looks down at my arms again, still covered in the blanket and he pulls it off, revealing again the red soaked bandages.

            "Hey," I start to protest but before I can slam my door in his face again he's pulling me into the bathroom with him and taking out more gauze and bandages.

            "Mark, stop. Don't touch me, STOP!" I shout as he reaches for my arm anyway.

            He looks frightened for a second but then finally seems to get it as he opens the cabinet again and puts on gloves before cleaning up and dressing my wounds again.

            When he's done, I pull away angrily, upset that he's treating me like a baby.

            "You know, I could have done it myself…"

            He shakes his head. "You wouldn't have."

            I glare at him. "You don't know that."

            "Yes I do. You haven't ever done it in these past six months, why would you have this time?"  
            I don't say anything because I know he's right. But, not about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that, I go in my room again and slam the door, but in my embarrassment and fury, I forget to lock it.

            After a few minutes of sitting by myself in silence, trying to forget everything that's happened these past two days, I hear him knock on my door again come in without waiting for a response.

            "Hey! I didn't sat you could come in!"

            He sighs. "Roger, what's with you tonight? I haven't done anything but try to help you, why are you so mad?"

            "Because you're prying into things that are none of your business."

            "But this _is_ my business… Don't you want to stop? Don't you want help?"

            "No it's not, yes, and no."

            He pauses for a second, trying to figure that all out, and then says, "You want to stop…but you don't want help…?"

            I nod. "Yes. I can stop by myself."

            He gives me a look.

            "Then why haven't you already?"

            I pause. "I haven't wanted to. But I do now, so you can just leave it the fuck alone."

            He shakes his head.

            "You know that's not true, Rog. It's an addiction thing, you can't stop just like that, just because someone wants you to."

            I look at him in shock, wondering how he knew that…how he knew how addictive it was and how hard it is to stop.

            "See? I _do_ understand a little."

            I cross my freshly bandaged arms. "No, you really don't. You don't know what it's like, you've never been through it, so stop pretending you know everything about it and that you understand exactly what it's like. You don't."

            He sighs. "Okay, you're right. I don't understand exactly what it's like because I never _have_ been through it. But other people have, and they _would_ understand…right?"

            I pause, not sure what he's getting at. I nod hesitantly.

            "Wouldn't you like to be somewhere where everyone understood what it's like? Understood how hard it is to stop, to even admit that it's a problem in the first place?"

            "Um…"

            "Collins told me about this place…"

I cut him off. "Collins? You told Collins?!"

"Yeah…was I not supposed to?"

"Would you want all _your_ friends to know that you're slicing yourself up?"

I see him shudder a bit.

"Well, no, I guess not… But Collins doesn't care. He's just worried, and I didn't tell anyone else. Why is it such a big deal?"

"Because I don't want the entire world to know I'm crazy! I don't want everyone to know that I'm doing this!"

            "But…no one thinks you're crazy, Roger. You're _not_ crazy, and no one thinks you are."

            I look at him closely, trying to decide if he's telling the truth or not. "You mean you don't think I'm crazy for 'tearing open my arms?'"

He sighs. "I told you I was sorry for saying that before, Rog. And no, I don't think you're crazy at all."

            "Yeah right."

            "Roger, you're not crazy! Just…in need of help."

            I glare at him. "What does that mean?"

"It means that for whatever reason, pain is the only thing that can comfort you right now, and that needs to be changed."

            I look at him suspiciously, wondering how he could possibly know all that.

            "Yeah, well I can change it by myself."

            "How?" he challenges.

            I pause. "I just can, okay?"

            He doesn't say anything but gives me a look like he doesn't believe that for a second.

            "Mark, please, just leave me alone…"

            "I will. Just hear me out first, okay?"

            I nod slowly, deciding that I could sit through one of his lectures if it meant he would leave me alone.

"When I went to see Collins before he told me about this program, in Chicago. It specializes in, um, self-injury. Which means that the only people there would be people like you, that understand and can help you."

I shake my head. "No way, I'm not going."

            "Why not Roger?"

            "Because I don't need it. Programs like that are for people who are really bad…the people who have been to hospitals dozens of times for stitches, or can't live normally because it's gotten so bad. I'm not like that, I don't need to be there."

            Right, like you live normally now," he says sarcastically.

            "I do live normally!"

            'Uh huh, sure. You never go out of the loft anymore, you haven't spoken to anyone, including me, in weeks, it's over 90 degrees outside and you're stuck wearing long sleeves and pants all the time, you haven't touched your guitar in months, your girlfriend left you because you were acting strangely, your only source of comfort is your blood and a razor, you have scars on your arms that are probably never going to fade completely, and you almost never leave your room anymore. That's really living normally."

            "Shut up Mark! Just shut the hell up! It's worth all that you know, it's better than feeling the way I did before I started doing this."

            His face saddens considerably when I say that.

            "It's worth all you're going through now just for a little comfort now and then?"

            I sigh, trying to think of a way to get him to understand what I don't even fully understand myself.

            "It's not 'just a little comfort now and then.' It's…I don't know. It's a way not to feel all the things that were eating me up before. Did you know I was thinking of killing myself a few months ago?"

            He gasps. "Oh my God Roger…you were?"

            I nod. "Yeah. I'm not anymore though. Because all the frustration and anger and hurt that was making me want to do it have a way to get out now. I didn't have that before. You don't understand what it's like to have to have all that inside of you with no way to get it out. It's the worst feeling in the world, Mark, and now I don't have that anymore."

            "But…Roger, now you have so many other things. You may not be in pain…um, emotional pain anymore, but you have so many other problems now because of what you do to get rid of it."

            I shrug. "It's worth it Mark. You wouldn't understand, I need this. It's the only thing I have, I need it to survive."

            "No you don't! Come on Roger, do you really want to be cutting yourself for the rest of your life, every time something upsets you? If you keep heading down this path you're eventually going to end up as one of those people who's been to the hospital dozens of times for stitches and who can't function normally in the real world anymore."

            As I listen to Mark I start to get really uncomfortable again with the knowledge that he knows my secret, that he knows the thing that I've kept to myself for months now and never ever wanted anyone to find out. 

            I look at my watch and realize that it's 6:30 already. Wow, it hardly seems like an hour has passed. Mark's still talking but I've tuned him out, and I stand up, going over to my closet and throwing on a shirt.

            "Roger…what are you doing?"

"I'm going out."

            He looks at me in surprise. "You're going out of the loft?"

"Yeah."

            I start to head out the door but he calls me back.

            "Wait Rog," he says as he glances me over. "Aren't you going to be hot in that?" he asks, motioning to my long-sleeved black Well Hungarians shirt and plaid pants.

            I shrug. "It's early. It's not too bad out yet."

            He tries one more time to keep me inside as he steps in front of me, blocking the entrance to the door.

            "Roger, this is insane. Are you going to dress like that all summer just because you're scared of what other people think?"

"No, I dress like this so _they_ won't be scared. Now if you'll excuse me…" 

I push him aside and walk out the door, ignoring him as he says, "Wait, Roger, where are you going?"

One on the street I realize just how hot it is and sit down on a bench in the shade for a few minutes, thinking about the conversation I'd just had with Mark and everything that's happened these past two days.

            I know he's right about some of the things he said, like how I had to stop now before it gets even more out of control. But with some of the other things, he just doesn't understand, doesn't know what it's like, and therefore has no right no lecture me about it and tell me what's right for me.

            The truth is though, that I really would like his help. But I'd never admit it to him. I'd never accept it, never willingly let him help me, because I know that if I did he'd get disgusted and think I was absolutely insane. I know how it is. People don't like to talk about something like cutting, they get uncomfortable and grossed out. They offer to help, but they're doing it to be polite, so they won't look like a bad friend.

            And I already know that's what Mark is doing because he even admitted that he felt like he was being a bad friend. The truth is that cutting is just a subject that people would do anything to avoid. Mark is no exception. I saw his expression when I was talking about it, and saw the look on his face when he was bandaging my wounds and cleaning me up.

            To take him up on his offer to help wouldn't be fair to him. So I'm not going to do it. And besides, I don't even think I'd really be comfortable talking to Mark about it.

            He is right though, when he said I needed to stop. I know I do. And I will. Tomorrow. 

            Tomorrow I'll start writing music again, tomorrow I'll start up a new band, tomorrow I'll get back together with Mimi…tomorrow.  
  



	5. Last Resort

A/N:  Lyrics are to "Last Resort" and belong to Papa Roach, as does the name of this chapter. 

Mark POV:

            7:00. Seven o'clock at night and Roger still isn't back. He's been gone since 6:00 this morning and I'm about ready to kill him when he comes back.

            I still can't believe that any of this is happening. Why did Roger have to do this? Why did he have to start cutting himself? I mean, when normal people are depressed, they talk to someone about it. Normal people don't take out all their emotions on their skin. Then again, Roger isn't normal. 

Roger seems to have this incapability to talk to anyone about anything. I guess it's no surprise that he turned to this, but still. Haven't I shown him that I'll always be there for him no matter what? Did I do something wrong? Did I, in some way, send Roger the message that I was untrustworthy, and not willing to listen to his problems and help?

            I've always tried to show Roger that I'd be there for him no matter what. Yet, without fail, he keeps everything to himself and ends up turning to something dangerous, like heroin…or cutting.

            I sigh and run my hands through my hair, frustrated and upset about this whole situation. I can't be mad though. No, if there's one thing I've learned in all these years of living with Roger it's that getting mad only makes thing worse.

            I know what makes him worse, but what the hell will help? I've tried everything…yelling, begging, trying to talk to him, offering my help and support, tough love…but absolutely nothing works.

            I'm so lost, I don't know what I can do to help him anymore. At least he opened up to me last night though, even if only for a little while. At least it was something.

            Suddenly I hear the front door to the loft open and Roger walks in.

            "Roger! Where the hell were you?"  
            "Out."

            Okay, don't get mad…don't yell, don't attack him…

            I swallow the anger I feel rising up in my throat. "Where 'out'?"

            He shrugs. "Just walking. Thinking." He starts to walk to his room but I stop him.

            "About what?"

            He turns around and glares at me. "What do you think?"

            I sigh, really not wanting to have to deal with this from him right now.

            "Roger, what-"

            "Listen Mark, I really don't want to talk about this anymore, so I'll make this easy for you. No, I'm not going to that program. Yes, I'm going to stop. And no, I don't need your help."

            "But…why not?"

            He looks confused. "Why not what?"

            "Why won't you go?"

            "To that program? Because that's not for people like me. They're out of control. I'm in control, I can stop any time I want to."

            "Then…why don't you?"  
            "Mark, I just told you I was going to!"

            "I don't believe you! I don't think you can!"

            He walks towards me, staring me down. "And why is that?"  
            "Because I think if you could stop you would have by now."

            He rolls his eyes. "You don't know what it's like, okay? I can stop anytime I want, and I'm going to. I already did. I didn't do anything today."

            "But what about tomorrow? And the next day? Do you really think you can stop altogether, on your own?"

            He nods. "Yes. Yes I do."

            I'm about to protest again, to insist that he can't possibly do this all on his own, but before I even get the chance to open my mouth, he storms to his room, slamming the door.

            A few minutes later I can hear loud music blasting from behind the closed door and I cringe when I hear the lyrics…

_Cut my life into pieces  
This is my last resort  
Suffocation, no breathing  
Don't give a fuck if I cut my arm bleeding_

_This is my last resort._

_Cut my life into pieces  
I've reached my last resort  
Suffocation, no breathing  
Don't give a fuck if I cut my arm bleeding  
Do you even care if I die bleeding?…_

A/N:  Um, yeah..sorry that was so short. But it gets the ball rolling I guess. :D 


	6. Broken Promises

Roger POV:

            I look at the calendar on my wall, crossing off another hellish day I've gone without cutting myself. Two months. 56 whole days have gone by since the last time I used my razor…since the last time I felt at ease, comforted, and relaxed.

            My tomorrow finally came… I wish it hadn't.

            I want to do it every single waking moment of my life. I miss it more than anyone could ever imagine. Who would have thought that I'd miss the physical pain that comes only from a razor or knife - or other sharp object - cutting into my skin? But I do. I miss it so damn much.

            I still constantly find myself holding a knife or other various weapon (pencils with no erasers, pen caps…basically anything I deem sharp enough to damage myself with) to my arm and fighting the screaming in my head and the rage I feel welling up inside me. I never press down though. I can't. Because if I do, that'll mean that Mark was right about me. And I'm determined to prove him wrong.

            There's still a part in the back of my mind, though, that says I'll never be able to stop for good. And I know that's probably right. But, I figure if I can go the rest of the summer without doing it, Mark will drop his suspicions and when the winter comes I can go back to doing it as much as I need to.

            I open the door to my room and go into the kitchen, pouring myself a bowl of Captain Crunch and sit down on the couch.

            Mark had been writing in a notepad, what I assume were notes for his new documentary, but he looks up when he hears me approach.

            " 'Morning Rog."

            My mouth is full of cereal so I nod a hello.

            He continues to stare at me though, just watching me eat and after a while I begin to get uncomfortable. 

I turn to look at him. "What?"

            He drops his eyes quickly and mutters, "Nothing."  
            "No, seriously, what?"

            He lifts his eyes up to mine again and pauses before saying, "Why do you still wear long sleeves all the time, Roger? I thought you stopped."

            I sigh. "I _did_ stop."

            I take another big bite of my Captain Crunch, hoping to avoid further discussion on the subject.

            "Then why the long sleeves?"

            I glare at him. He wouldn't understand. He doesn't know. Well, actually he probably does know since he got a good look at my arms a few times during the past two months. Even though I stopped cutting myself and there aren't any new scars, the old ones still linger from the past and…well, they're bad to say the least. I hate them. They're the only part of cutting I don't like. Most of the angry, red scratches from the beginning have faded away, but the more recent ones, the deeper, more angry ones, have yet to heal and I doubt they ever will completely.

            If anyone ever caught site of my arms, they'd know my crime in a second. Because what else could have caused scars like the ones I have on my mutilated arms? As far as I know, only Collins knows the truth about what's wrong with me. The others are still in the dark, thinking I've gone back to using, or whatever it is that they think I'm doing.

            I begged Mark not to tell and, to the best of my knowledge, he never did. If anyone found out the truth about what I've been doing, I'd just die. It's bad enough that Mark and Collins know.

            Suddenly, Mark's voice tears me from my thoughts as he gets up from his kitchen chair and walks over to me, saying, "Roger… you didn't cut yourself again, did you?"

            "No!" I yell and move further from him, to the other side of the room.

            "Then why are you acting like this? Why do you still wear long sleeves all the time?"

            "Mark," I plead, "please just leave it alone…"

            I start backing towards my doorway, aware that this action is probably just making things worse, feeding his suspicion, but I don't want him to see my arms. I don't want anyone to. And I know that if I don't get away soon he's going to ask to see them.

            But, no. I'm wrong, he doesn't ask to see them. Instead he grabs my left arm and yanks the sleeve up, then does the same with the right.

            I pull away quickly, pushing the sleeves back down over the dozens of scars, disgusted with myself and positive that now Mark is disgusted with me as well.

            I'm surprised when he just stands there not saying anything, his face showing no signs of disgust or anger…only confusion.

            We keep this up for quite a while, just staring at each other, neither of us willing to make the first move.

            Finally, he breaks the silence by saying, "I don't get it."

            Now it's my turn to look confused. "What do you mean?"  
            "I mean, you don't cut yourself anymore, you haven't for two months, it's the end of August and still over 90 degrees outside, and you still wear long sleeved shirts all the time. I don't understand."

            I sigh. "Well, you saw my arms. It shouldn't be too hard to figure out."

            "What, you mean because of your scars?"

            I nod, getting annoyed at his lack on understanding and at having to discuss this subject once again.

            "Well…"  He reaches for my arm again and despite my protests, he rolls up the sleeve. "It's not… _that_ bad…"

            I give him a look and pull my arm away, holding it protectively at my side.

            "Okay… Well if anyone asks, you can tell them you were in a car accident or something."

            "The only people that would ask are my friends. And don't you think they'd know already if I really did get into a car accident?"

            He sighs. "I just don't want to see you suffer, Roger."

            I turn around and start to walk to my room again, but just before entering I turn around and say, "It's a little too late for that, don't you think?" and close the door before he has a chance to say anything else.

Mark POV:

            I stare at Roger's closed door for a few seconds before sighing and deciding it would be best not to press the issue. So I go back to the living room instead and clean up the remains of his breakfast.

            As I walk back to the kitchen table to finish the notes I had started earlier, I notice that the only knife we have, that I usually leave by the sink, isn't there anymore. I remember seeing it there a few days ago, and I don't remember washing it…

            Roger. Of course. I shudder as the image of Roger cutting himself with the knife flashes through my mind.

            Well, at least I know that he hasn't used it…yet. I'll have to tear his room apart later and find that and whatever else he may be hiding in there. Every few weeks, when I notice a kitchen utensil or otherwise sharp object missing, I go through his room and confiscate his newest stash.

            I know that even though he stopped the actual act of cutting himself that he's still depressed and sick, and very much in need of help. The help that he refuses to admit he needs and won't accept from me or anyone else. Collins knows that he stopped, I told him a few weeks ago when I returned the books he let me borrow. He thinks it's great, he's under the impression that Roger's better now and everything is back to normal.

            He couldn't be more wrong. Roger's still depressed and withdrawn. If anything, he's even more depressed now than he was when he was still cutting himself. And I know that's because he didn't deal with the issues that were driving him to do it in the first place. 

He just stopped doing it. Never talked about it, just pretended like it wasn't even an issue in the first place. He just simply ignores the problem and denies the existence of any sort of pain whatsoever, and thinks that because he stopped the cutting he's better and therefore doesn't need help and doesn't ever need to talk about it again.

            But he's wrong. Just because the symptoms disappear that doesn't mean the disease is cured. Oh no, Roger is a looooong way from "cured." 

            I try to talk to him about it all the time, but Roger refuses to listen or even acknowledge the existence of a problem. He insists that he stopped and that he's fine now and doesn't want to talk about it. But I know that in reality, Roger is anything but fine.      

Roger POV:

            I slam the door to my room shut, kicking it a few times in anger and frustration before flopping face down on my bed and covering my head with my pillow. I've had a very long, bad day and want nothing more than to get my razor out from under my mattress (the only hiding spot I have that Mark doesn't know about) and run the blade over my skin. Just the thought of it makes me shiver with anticipation.

            Suddenly I hear my door creaking open and I look up to see Mark leaning on my doorframe.

            "Don't you ever KNOCK??"

            "Yes. But you never answer. So I gave up on that, it's much easier and less frustrating to just walk in."

            I glare at him and throw the pillow on my bed at him.

            He catches it and tosses it back at me. "Roger, what's wrong?"

            "Nothing's wrong. Leave me alone."

            "Uh huh, sure. When you got home I thought for sure the building was falling down."

            "Fuck you. Leave me alone."

            "No way. I'm staying, for damage control if nothing else," he says, staring at the dent I made in my door from where I kicked it with my heavy boots. "Guess you were kinda mad, huh?"

            I glare at him. "It was either me or the door."

            "Why does it have to be either? Why can't you just deal with things in a less…violent way? And I don't just mean violent to the door…"

            "Yeah, I know what you meant," I say rolling my eyes. But I don't answer the question.

            "Well?" he prods after I don't say anything for a few minutes.

            "What? You mean why can't I not be violent to myself?"

            He cringes just a bit and nods.

            I shrug. "How else would I deal with things?" I reply nonchalantly, too pissed off and upset right now to care what he thinks or to be careful of not revealing too much to him.

            I stretch myself out on my bed again, turning away from him and closing my eyes for a few seconds, hoping that maybe if I ignore him for long enough he'd go away.

            But he doesn't. He doesn't say anything, doesn't even move, but I can feel his eyes digging into me, which is making me increasingly more uncomfortable as the minutes tick by. I can only imagine the thoughts he must be having right now.

            Finally, I can't take it anymore and I turn around and shout, "What?"

            He looks sad for a moment and shakes his head. But when he looks at me again I can see anger in his eyes, an anger that he's trying to suppress but not succeeding in very well.

            "How else would you deal with things? What about…oh, say TALKING?!"

            His anger and shouting fuel my own, but unlike him I do nothing to try and suppress it. "What the fuck is there to talk about? I fucking stopped cutting myself!! I stopped, why the hell are you still doing this to me?"

            "Doing what to you Roger? Talking to you, trying to help?"

"Help? Is your idea of 'help' nagging someone to fucking death, trying to force them to talk about something that really really _really_ makes them uncomfortable? Something that they've told you about a million fucking times they don't want to discuss? Because if it is, you're doing a fucking GREAT job!" I say sarcastically.

            He lets go of all the anger he'd been trying to hide as he yells, "I'm only trying to help you, Roger! I don't know why. I don't know why I haven't fucking given up by now! I should have a long time ago! Because it's obvious that you care about no one but yourself and you don't care who the hell you hurt by doing these things to yourself. 'Cause hey, as long as it makes you feel better, what the hell right? I've been trying so fucking hard here, Roger! Do you think it's not hurting me too when you do this? When I suddenly find the kitchen knife gone one day, only to find it later on in your room? You know, all those months ago, I would find blood around the loft. And I would try to tell myself that you had a nosebleed, or just cut yourself shaving. Because I didn't want to believe that you would do something like this to yourself, Roger. I didn't want to believe that you were hurting yourself. But y'know, even though you're the one taking a fucking razor and cutting yourself open, I'm the one that's gotten hurt the most. Because I've had to sit her and suffer all those months watching you do it! Cleaning up your blood, hiding the razors, hiding the knife, lying to myself about what was going on, then trying to help and being slapped in the face! All I've been doing from the beginning was trying to help. Well, I GIVE UP! I can't take it anymore! You obviously have NO intention whatsoever of trying to get better, so I give up on trying to help. You want to be left alone? Fine! You got it!" And with that he storms out of my room, slamming the door, hard, behind him.

            I jump off my bed and kick the closed door a few more times, trying to release all the feelings that are welling up inside of me but it's no use. There's only one thing that can make them go away, and I know that if I don't do it now, I'm going to go completely insane and probably destroy the entire apartment…the whole building probably.

            I grab the razor from under my mattress as fast as I can and hastily drag the cool piece of metal across my forearm, going deeper and deeper with each cut. But I don't care. All that matters now is getting these emotions that threaten to tear me apart inside, out of me.

            Finally, after I've done quite a number on both my arms, I begin to feel sane again and I let the razor slip from my hands, just staring at the blood that is flowing steadily down my arms and onto the floor. I can almost see all the anger and hurt and frustration flow out of my body with the blood and I sigh, relaxed and calm for the first time in months.

            I almost want to cry at how good this feels, but along with the feeling of satisfaction there is another one: guilt. Guilt, not only because I cut myself again, after promising myself that I'd stop for the time being, but also because Mark's words have finally started to sink in.

            I knew that would happen. I knew it, and that's exactly why I didn't talk to him or tell him anything about what was going on or how I felt. I was just so mad…so fucking pissed off, and I let myself slip. I revealed to him that the pain I've grown to love so much was the only way I could deal with the things that eat me up on the inside.

            That's what had started everything. And Mark's right. He shouldn't have to deal with this…shouldn't have to deal with me. I tried to protect him, I tried so hard to keep all these things a secret because I knew what would happen if I let any of it slip out. And I was right.

            Suddenly the entire argument, all the screaming and yelling, begins playing back in my head and I feel the familiar desire racing through my body again. I look down at my razor, still on the floor, and at the blood that is still flowing heavily from the wounds I inflicted upon myself.

            Well, I already screwed up. I already broke my promise to myself. There's no point in continuing to fight the impulses, I already messed up and cut myself so it doesn't matter anymore.

            And with that knowledge soothing the guilt I feel as I pick up the razor once again, I don't hesitate this time as I bring it to my flesh and release the anguish inside of me that knows no other escape other than out of my body through my blood. 


	7. Questions

Mark POV:

            I walk out of Roger's room, where I've been for the past two hours, apologizing for yelling at him like that and saying those things to him before. I could kill myself for that. I'm thoroughly sure now that I've ruined the little trust that Roger had in me to begin with.

            I just couldn't help it. For months and months I've been trying to help him, doing everything I can and yet he still refuses to so much as talk to me about it. And it's just so frustrating to watch him go through all this, to watch him suffer all on his own because he refuses to let anyone into his world of pain.

            But, I still had no right to say the things I said to him before, and I hope he believes me when I say that I didn't mean it and I was just frustrated and upset. It's been a long day for all of us and I'm sure we'll all feel better in the morning after a good night's rest.

            I look at my watch and realize that it's only 9:30. Usually I'm up much later than this, 2:00, even 3:00 in the morning. But I'm just so exhausted, both physically and emotionally, after everything that's happened today, so I walk towards my bedroom, stifling a yawn.

            Just as I'm about to walk in I hear a knock on the front door and I groan. I contemplate just ignoring whoever it is, and going into my room to sleep anyway, but then I hear a sort of high-pitched squeaking coming from outside and I realize that it's Maureen and that she's crying.

            I sigh and open the front door, letting her in. Her face is red and tear stained and I notice that she's left a trail of crumpled tissues behind her in the hallway.

            "Maureen? Are you okay?"

            A few more squeaks, a sniffle and then, "Pookie!"

            She throws her arms around my neck, nearly suffocating me in her embrace.

            I cough a little as she releases me. "What's wrong?"

            "I-It's Joanne… S-she kicked me out!"

            "You broke up again?"

            She nods and sniffs again. "She says I have to have my things packed by tomorrow…"

            Oh no, I have a feeling I know where this is going…

            "Can I stay with you, Pookie? Pleeeaaase?" She gives me her infamous Maureen pout and I sigh, not wanting to let her live with us, but not being able to refuse either.

            At any other time I would have jumped at the chance to have Maureen live with me again, but I know that's the last thing Roger needs right now. Maureen's not exactly his favorite person in the world, though I suspect he likes her a little more than he lets on. But still, I know he wouldn't go for the idea of her living here again. And I don't think _I_ can stand living with Maureen and Roger under the same roof. Especially not with the way Roger's been acting lately.

            "Are you sure it's really over, Maureen? I mean, you guys break up every other week."

            "I know," she cries. "But she wants me to move this time, and I have nowhere to go until we get back together again… Please Honeybear? Please, please please?"

            I sigh. "Listen, I'll go talk to Joanne, okay? And if she still won't let you back in the apartment, then you can stay here until you guys make up." 

            She squeals again, though this time out of happiness and says, "Thanks Mark!"

            I nod, searching around for some money just in case I need to bribe Joanne into letting Maureen stay with her. After I find a few crumpled bills lying around, I head out the door, promising to be back within the hour and instructing Maureen to stay in the kitchen/living room and to leave Roger alone.

Maureen POV:

            I pout when Mark leaves, mad at him for leaving me all by myself when I'm obviously going through a major crisis here. I cry for a few more minutes, to myself, but eventually I get lonely and stop when I realize that no one's here to hear me.

            Suddenly, something that Mark said before he left flashes through my mind and I smile.

            _Don't bother Roger._

            Yay! That means Roger's home! I get up from my spot on the couch and knock on Roger's door, disregarding Mark's instructions to leave him alone. Honestly, I don't know how he expects me to deal with this all by myself. How insensitive!

            Roger doesn't answer so I walk in without waiting for a reply, and start sobbing again when I see him lying on his bed staring at the ceiling.

            "Roger?"

            He looks at me briefly and then returns his gaze to the crack in the ceiling without saying anything.

            "Roger, why won't you answer me?"

            I pout and start to cry again, deciding to tell him about my fight with Joanne anyway.

            "…and then she said, 'I want you packed by tomorrow,' and I said, 'But Honeybear, why? I didn't _mean_ to cheat on you, honest! She came on to _me_, I mean, can you blame her?' and then she said, 'That's it, I want you out, now!' and I said, 'Pookie, you're _leaving _me?' and she said, 'Yes, and for good this time!' and I said…  Roger, why are you wearing a sweatshirt, Honey? It's, like, 100 degrees in here! You must be sweating!" I say in one breath.

            He removes the pillow from his head and stares at me. "Are you done yet?"

            I pout, realizing that he hadn't heard a word I said. I decide to take pity on him though, deciding that it just must be the heat getting to him. I sit down next to him on his bed and rub his arms. The poor dear must be overheated, no wonder he wasn't listening to me!

            I feel bad for him so I reach for his sweatshirt, deciding to make him a little more comfortable, and begin to pull the shirt over his head.

            He pulls back sharply, his left sleeve rolling up just a bit and I gasp and reach for the arm again, pulling the sleeve up all the way.

            "Roger!" I scream in horror when I see the awful scars running in every direction. "What the FUCK happened to you, Baby? You look like you were run over my a train, or attacked by a lion or something!!"

            I cringe and yank up the sleeve on the other arm as well, gasping again when I see that this one is just as bad.

            "Go AWAY Maureen! Get out!" he yells as he pulls back sharply.

            "No, I won't. I'm worried about you, Baby, what happened?"

            I'm beginning to get scared. What if something really bad happened to him? Those scars… I shudder at the memory… looked like they're from an attack or something. Or like someone's abusing him.

            He doesn't say anything for a few seconds, and then finally looks up and says, "I fell on some glass, that's all. Don't worry about it."

            "No, no you didn't. You didn't fall on glass Roger, don't lie to me!"

            He glares at me and from the look on his face I know to shut up now before I get him even angrier. I definitely don't want to get on the wrong side of Roger's rage.

            I sigh. "Okay, just let me see again."

            He gives me a look and I quickly realize how suspicious that must have sounded. I search for a cover up and quickly say, "I just want to make sure they're not infected…"

            "They're not," he says and gets off his bed, pulling me up with him. He pushes me towards the door and hesitates just before shoving me out. "Don't tell Mark," he whispers and then I'm pushed out of the room, the door securely locked behind me.

            Mark walks back in the front door, just as I'm shoved out of Roger's room, muttering something under his breath about not having any money left.

            And suddenly it all makes sense. The scars on both of his arms, the severity of the wounds, how they were all lined up like they were inflicted, how he didn't want me to tell Mark…

            "Mark!!" I yell, storming over to him.

            He looks confused for a second and says, "What? What's wrong now?"

            I slap him, hard, across the face.  "You fucking asshole, how the fuck could you do that to Roger?!" I backhand him again and cross my arms, unfazed by the look of utter confusion on his face. Yeah right, he knows I figured it out, he's just playing stupid.

            "What the FUCK Maureen?" he shouts, pressing a hand to the trickle of blood under his nose. "What the hell are you talking about?"

            "You know what I'm talking about, you pathetic abusive bastard!"

            "What?! Abusive? What are you TALKING about??"

            "Don't play dumb. I saw Roger's arms, I know what you did to him! I should have known, this kind of thing runs in the family…" I shake my head sadly. I never would have thought Mark would be the kind of person to do this to his best friend.

            "His…his arms?" All of a sudden his face goes from angry to scared and concerned.

            "Yes. I saw what you've been doing to him."

            "And what makes you think I did it to him?"  
            "Because what _else_ leaves scars like that? What else can make cuts that bad?" I yell, about ready to slap him again.

            He looks sad all of a sudden and takes my arm, saying, "I didn't do that to him Maureen." And then I'm pushed out of a door for the _second_ time today.

            "But Pookie," I yell, banging on the door. "I have nowhere to go!"

            "Yes you do," he calls back. "You're staying with Joanne."

            I squeal. "She forgives me?"

            "Yeah," he says, sounding a little preoccupied.

            "Good," I say and start to walk away. "Now she can help me sue your ass for abuse."

Mark POV:

            I sit down on the couch and lean my head over the back, rubbing my temples. God, what a day. I don't know how much more of this I can take. 

            I can't believe him. I can't believe he's doing it again. And that he didn't tell me! Well, I guess that part's no surprise. He's been lying to me for months. Okay, that's it. I'm pushed to my breaking point here, I'm not going to take this anymore from him. I honestly didn't think he was going to go forever without cutting himself again, but I need to know that he at least wants to get better. I need to know what's going on with him, why he's doing it, why he doesn't want to stop, why he doesn't want help. 

            I get up off the couch and walk over to his door. So many questions are running through my mind. And this time I'm not leaving until I get answers.

A/N:   Just felt the need for a more light-hearted chapter. Not so angsty…well, not *as* angsty. Sadness will resume in the next chapter!


	8. Answers

A/N:  This story isn't going well at all, I apologize for that. I think this will be the last chapter, at least for now. I'm taking a break from it for a while, I'm not sure if I'll come back to it yet or not. If anyone's still reading this, thanks for sticking with it this far. I know it hasn't been great, but hopefully after taking some time away from it I'll be able to come back and improve, and finish it. There are some other ideas running around in my mind so hopefully I'll be starting on a new fic pretty soon.

Mark POV:

             "Roger!" I yell for the third time as I bang on his door. I sigh and then just walk in without waiting for a reply. I'm not surprised when I see him lying on his bed, doing nothing, just staring out into nothingness.

            "Roll up your sleeves," I demand, walking over to him.

            "What?"

            He sits up looking scared now.

            "Let me see your arms." I repeat, reaching out for an arm.

            He pulls back sharply. "No! Don't you trust me at all? I don't do it anymore!"

            "Then why do you always wear long sleeves?" I question, knowing he's just getting himself in deeper and deeper with each lie.

            He pauses and then says, "Because of the old scars…there isn't anything new!"

            Knowing he'd never let me see willingly, I grab his arm and roll up the sleeve, pointing to all the "old scars."

            I literally have to bite my tongue to prevent a gasp from escaping my lips. Oh my God, they're so bad, the cuts are so bad… Okay, don't act shocked, don't act scared…be calm.

            There are a few, the most recent ones I'm guessing, that are still open and bleeding. It seems like it's just getting worse and worse, the cuts getting deeper and more severe each time he does it.

            "Shit Roger," I whisper, unable to mask the hint of sadness that creeps into my voice.

            He yanks his arm back and glares at me, rolling the sleeve down again quickly. He doesn't say anything, though, doesn't scream or yell or make excuses like I had been expecting.

            "How long?"

"What?"

            "How long have you been doing if?"

            He shrugs. "I don't know."

            I shake my head and reach for his arm again, pushing the sleeve back up. I have to blink back tears when the scars come into view again. How could he do this to himself? _Why _does he do this to himself?

            "Roger, you know, you should really get these checked out," I say, motioning to his arm again.

            He pulls away. "What do you mean?"

            "I mean you should go to the hospital. You need stitches or they'll never heal completely and you'll have bad scars for life."

            "No!" he shouts, much louder than I had expected.

            I back away slightly, afraid that if he gets angry enough he might hit me.

            "Why not?" I ask in a small voice.

            "I'm not going to any fucking hospital! I don't want anybody finding out about this!"

"But the only people that would know would be doctors…"

            "And you don't think they'd make me see a shrink? Or keep me there? They'd think I was fucking crazy! People don't understand Mark, they just don't understand. I'm. Not. Going."

            "But Roger, theses are really bad," I say, motioning to his arm, where, thankfully, the wounds have been covered by his long sleeves. "You're going to have scars for life if you don't go. And nobody else needs to know about it."

"I already have scars for life. A few more won't hurt. And doctors don't treat…us…very nicely. You don't understand about this, Mark. People, even doctors, just don't understand. Doctors are the worst. A lot of them don't give any anesthetic if we need stitches, they talk down to us like we're crazy, they're just overall cruel and misunderstanding. And I'm not going to a place with people like that."

            I sigh. He's right. People _can_ be cruel, and the last thing he needs right now is someone confirming his fears that he's crazy. Even though he's not, he's right about how people would think he is.

            "Well, if you won't go to the hospital, will you at least let me take care of them?"

"No. No way."

"Why not?"

"I don't need your help. I'm fine. I can do it by myself."

            "Yes you do need my help, no, you're _not_ fine, and you're not going to do it by yourself. You never do. So it's either me or the hospital."

            After he doesn't say anything for a few seconds, I grab him by the wrist, being careful not to hurt him, and drag him into the bathroom with me where I clean and bandage his wounds. 

            Fifteen minutes later we're sitting in his room again. Or, correction: _I'm_ sitting and he's standing over me, yelling for me to get out.

            "No fucking way, Roger. I'm not leaving you alone until we talk."

            He sighs and then plops down on his bed.

            "Fine then," he says and grins wickedly. He reaches for his guitar and then starts playing the first six notes to Muesetta's Waltz over and over and over again.

            After a while, he gets bored of this and starts playing a song I've never heard before.

_...You told me you loved me and said that you cared,_

_but that's not what I saw in your dark eyes' harsh glare._

_You "loved" me, you hurt me, turned your back one me..._

Roger POV:_   
_            As I continue to play my song, I notice Mark staring at me and I begin to get uncomfortable. The day is uncommonly hot for mid-September and he insisted on short sleeves, so my bandaged arms are in full view. He's staring at my arms.

            I know what he must be thinking. After a while I stop singing and just play the chords, watching his face for any signs of horror or disgust or…just anything at all to let me know what he's thinking. But his face is just blank. Expressionless, showing no emotion at all. Finally, I can't take it and I yell, "What the hell are you staring at?"

            He looks taken aback for a second and stares at me in confusion.

            "What are you talking about, Roger? I wasn't staring at anything, I was just watching you play."

            I give him a look, knowing he's lying but I don't say anything. I reach for the sweatshirt lying crumpled on my floor and slip it over my head, glaring at him again.

            "Roger…" He sighs. "You're going to by dying in that."

I shrug and go back to my guitar, but I'm starting to get really uncomfortable with him in here, staring at me. I decide to forget about my guitar for now and I reach for a book instead and open it up to some random page, pretending to read from it.

            This goes on for a while and eventually Mark says, "Do you realize you haven't turned the page in about a half hour?"

I glare at him again and hastily turn the page.

            He sighs. "Roger…"

"What?" I ask innocently without looking up.

            "You know, I won't pass judgment on you or tell anyone anything you say. You shouldn't be embarrassed or ashamed that you cut yourself. I just want to help."

I just stare at him, not believing a single word that came out of his mouth. He doesn't want to really talk about it. No person in their right mind would. He's only doing this because he feels obligated to. What he doesn't know is that I really _do _want to talk about this. But I just can't, it's so hard. He wouldn't understand anyway and I don't want him to think I'm disgusting or crazy. So even though I want nothing more than to talk about this, to let him help me and help me to stop, I don't because I know I would just gross him out or get him mad at me again.

            I finally say, "I know you don't really want to talk about this, Mark. I swear I won't ever do it again, you don't have to worry."

            "But Roger, I _do _want to-"

            "No you don't. You want to because you feel obligated to, you feel like you'll be a bad friend if you don't. And anyway, you wouldn't understand."

            "I know I don't have to be here right now. But I am. If I didn't really want to help you and talk about it I would have given up a long, long time ago. I wouldn't have sat in your room for the past two hours, waiting for you to open up and talk to me, I wouldn't have tried, consistently, for so many months to get you to talk, and I wouldn't be refusing to leave right now until you do. You're right, I probably wouldn't understand firsthand what it's like, but I _do_ understand that it's like an addiction, and I know that you can't just stop. And I also understand that you're not crazy or sick…you just need help, and talking will help. I swear, I won't be disgusted by anything you tell me, and I won't tell anyone or pass any judgment at all. I'll just listen and be there for you. I just want to help."

            I don't say anything for a while, not really knowing what to think. I don't know whether or not to believe him. I want to, I really really want to, but can I believe everything he just said? That he won't think I'm crazy, or get disgusted, or tell anyone?

            I sigh. Finally I just say, very quietly, half hoping that he doesn't hear me, "Okay."

            He looks at me expectantly and when I don't say anything he begins asking questions to make it easier on me.

            "Why did you start?"

            "I, uh…was going to kill myself but didn't. So I cut myself instead." I close my eyes, praying he won't hate me or yell or get upset.

            I see a flicker of sadness cross his face but he quickly covers it and says, "Why were you going to kill yourself?"

            I shrug. "Mimi and I broke up, the band split up, my music sucked, I just thought life wasn't worth living anymore." I look down at the floor where there are still a few droplets of blood from earlier in the day.

            "But, Rog…your music doesn't suck at all. It's great!"

            I shrug again. "Well, that's not what I thought…think. It doesn't matter now anyway. I didn't kill myself. I…" I let my voice trail off, not wanting to have to say the words again. _I cut myself. _That would make it seem so much more real.

            "What did you do?" he asks quietly, even though he already knows.

            "I…cut myself," I say just as quietly.

            "And?"

            "And, it felt… I liked it." I bow my head, praying that he doesn't think I'm crazy now and won't hate me for doing these things to myself and getting pleasure out of it. Even though I knew Mark knew all of this from the beginning, it didn't seem real if I pretended like it didn't exist and if I didn't talk about it. I could almost believe that everything was normal, almost believe that I didn't have a problem and needed help, and that Mark didn't know about it. And now by talking I'm admitting all of that. That I'm sick, that I have a problem, that I need help…  I'm opening myself up to him, letting him see my vulnerability, and making it that much easier for him to hurt me.

            He rubs my back and doesn't say anything for a second. I look up at him hesitantly, trying to see what he's thinking, and surprisingly, I don't see the hate or disgust that I was expecting to see on his face. Just concern, sadness, and something resembling disappointment.

            Finally he says, "It's okay, Roger. You know I already knew most of that anyway, right?"

I nod, looking down at the floor again. There are so many questions running through my mind. 

'Do you hate me?' 'Did I freak you out?' 'Are you mad at me?' 'Are you going to tell anyone?' 'Do you think I'm crazy?'

            But I don't ask, mostly because I'm too afraid of what the answers may be.

            He keeps rubbing my back and trying to comfort me, because he knows what a hard time I'm having right now, and asks slowly, "Do you want to stop?"

I shrug, not really knowing the answer myself. Yeah, I guess I do want to stop…but this is all I have. I can't not do it. It'd be like saying, 'Stop breathing.' Or 'Stop crying.' This is how I let go of the hurt inside of me. Some people turn to drugs or alcohol, some people take the hurt and inflict it on other people or things, some people cry. I cry in my own way: through my wounds. My blood is the tears that I can't seem to find anymore. And I can't give that up. Because without it I'd have no way of letting go of all the hurt I feel, no way to release everything that builds up inside me and needs a physical action to be let out.

            "Roger?"

I look up at him again, realizing that I haven't said anything in about five minutes.

            "Rog, do you want to stop?" he repeats.

            I shrug again, not wanting to commit myself to anything.

            "Okaaay…well, you remember that program I was telling you about a few months ago, right?"

I nod, knowing exactly where he's going with his.

            "Well, do you think you could consider trying it out? I really think it might help you…"

I look at him wearily. "I thought you said you'd help."

"I will help! But…well, it's just not the same. You went to rehab to get off smack, why can't you go to get off this? I mean, isn't it sort of like an addiction?"

_Sort of_ like an addiction? This is just as hard to get rid of as heroin was. I nod slowly.

            "I want to help, and I think the best way I can help is by making sure the get the right kind of help. Tell me the truth Roger, do you really think that I alone can get you to stop?"

I look down, not wanting to answer that. No, I know he can't make me stop. I don't know if anything can at this point.

"It's a 30 day program. You just go for a month and, I don't know…do whatever it is you do there, learn how to stop doing it, and then when you come home I'll help you stay away from it, just like I did with heroin. If you honestly think you don't need to go, and all you need is my help here, than I won't force you to go. But I think this would really help you…more than I ever could."

            I think about this for a second. Is he saying that he doesn't want to help me? Does he just want to send me away for 30 days to get rid of me and then expect me to come home cured?

"And when I got home? What then?"

            "Then I'd help you get better. But you need to go for the initial 30 days, just to help you stop cutting at first. When you're home and you're not doing it anymore, I'll help you continue to not do it, I'll be there if you ever do want to do it again, I'll talk with you when you need it…I'll do whatever it is that I need to do to help you get better."

            I let this all sink in and pause for a few seconds. He sounds so sincere…but can I really believe him? It really does seem like he cares… But how could someone care so much about me? It just doesn't seem possible. All I've ever done is hurt him, I've made him suffer so much, and yet he's always always there for me no matter what. Suddenly something he said months ago, in a half forgotten argument, comes back to me.

            _…__Even though you're the one taking a fucking razor and cutting yourself open, I'm the one that's gotten hurt the most. Because I've had to sit here and suffer all those months watching you do it!_

            I've hurt him the most out of anyone…by doing these things to myself. He's right when he said I didn't think of anyone but myself. It's true. And I have to start thinking of other people now…of him. I have to do this, if not for me then for him.

I take a deep breath, knowing I'm going to regret this, and hesitantly say, "Okay. I'll go."

He looks confused for a second. "You'll…you'll go?"

I nod. "Yeah."

            He looks shocked and then happy, and suddenly he grabs me in an unexpected embrace. "That's great! That's so great! You won't regret this Rog, I promise."

            He smiles and I offer a tentative smile in return, praying that he could possibly be right about this.

            He digs a small piece of paper out of his back pocket and hands it to me. It's so crinkled that I can barely make it out, the folded lines are white and about to rip off. I give him a look and say, "How long have you had this thing?"

He shrugs. "A while. I always carried it on me, just in case you changed your mind."

I stare at it closely, trying to make out the name and the phone number scribbled in Collins' messy handwriting. "S.A.F.E. Alternatives," I read out loud. "What does S.A.F.E. stand for?"

            "Self Abuse Finally Ends."

A/N:  If anyone's still reading this, thanks for sticking with it and please leave a review! Let me know that at least a few people are reading it, and let me know what you think, whether or not I should continue or drop it, blah blah blah. : )


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